A Morning of Mourning
by HollowMaruaders
Summary: A brief account of the life of James Potter following the loss of his wife and sons after the attack on their home in Godric's Hollow.


_**A morning of Mourning **_

James Potter sighed, his mouth hanging open for a minute afterwards, unable to find the energy or even see the need to shut it. He dragged himself up from the kitchen counter, absent-mindedly wiping away the drool on his chin, and stumbled towards the sink. He stood there, turned the tap on and rested his arms on the edge as he stared out the window. The fog hugged the glass, obscuring what little his vision could capture, not that there was much he could see without his spectacles. He splashed the cool water on to his face, not caring that he had wet his sleeves. He remained there. Just standing before stripping away his gown. Goosebumps spread along his torso, his chest now bare, he returned to his chair, cringing when his skin met cold wood and rest his head against the counter trying to find an escape into slumber. Where he didn't have to think or move or do anything for that matter. It was hopeless, he knew. He'd just woken up and the recurring throbbing of his head would not allow him such a mercy. He sighed, "Winny", he called out, his voice rough and coarse. He didn't talk much these days, there wasn't anyone to talk to and nor did he want to. A gentle crack followed his call, and the small house-elf appeared in front of him. Her large eyes looked upon her master, watching him. They perched upon his hair, once a shock of black that sang hues of purple and blue into the world, now plastered to his forehead. They moved to his face, his hollow cheeks pronounced by the dreary glow of twilight, his brown eyes looking hopelessly into her own, his skin pale and gaunt, stretched tightly across his face. She bowed her head, "Yes, Master Potter?" "Get me another couple bottles of firewhisky, please." He said, his voice slurred and as lifeless as his hair. "At once, Master", Winny replied, trying not to stare at his dry, peeling lips that were only half hidden by a scratchy beard. Another crack and she was gone, leaving James to wallow in his misery. He stood and moved into the hallway, his feet dragging across the floor.

At the age of 24, James Potter had lost much of his youthful features and now looked a man at least 10 years older. There was a fine crease across his forehead that had been gifted by a permanent scowl, and his once muscular body had withered away into a sack of bones. He paused when he walked passed the mirror and looked at his body. He found himself reminded of an old friend, and although James couldn't quite remember the name of this particular friend, he did know that his friend's body was a canvas on which lay a myriad of scars. This friend was bony and angular as he was now, although it suited his friend, giving him a sort of rugged handsomeness. It did no such thing for James, and he often felt shame and guilt when he did think of this friend. He sometimes wondered what kind of friend he himself had been to forget this man's name and no later than he had the thought, it all seemed to slip away from him. His mental faculties had deteriorated following the attack on their home 3 years earlier, with them his body too had slowly succumbed to weakness.

He continued to look at himself for a few minutes longer, before beginning the climb to his bedroom. He pulled himself up the stairs, relying heavily on the aid of the bannister. On the landing, he took a moment to collect himself and to catch his breath doing all that he could to ignore the empty room of his sons. He entered his bedroom, the king-sized bed seemingly too large tonight, a bed fit for two. He felt unworthy of it, and instead moved to sit on the rug next to the bed.

Winny joined him a moment later, placing the 6 pack on the rug too. She looked at her master, the knowledge that she could do nothing to help him yet again filling her mind. She wanted to reach out, give him more than just poison, cradle him and protect him as she had done when he was no older than his own sons now. Instead she let him be.

James pulled the duvet down from the bed, the knowledge that he was now alone again a chilling comfort that did more to warm him than the duvet itself. He lay there drinking to dull the sharpness of his numb mind, tears falling from his eyes as he watched the sky lightening from a deep blue to a wintery grey. Desperately trying to ignore the emptiness of the house. His parents were dead, his sons gone and his wife, oh his sweet Lily. He let out a chocked sob, a strangled wounded sound. His sweet, sweet wife. She too had left him, alone in this house, this life. He lay there, a living corpse.

A/N : This is my first time writing fan-fiction or even writing at all in a long time. Please, if you wouldn't mind, leave a comment below on what you think of it. This is a small snippet of a longer piece of fan-fiction I am currently in the process of writing. If you would like to read that, let me know. Anyways, thanks for reading it.


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